By My Side
by jouissance
Summary: A series of Kabby one-shots. Angst abounds. Fluff most probable. Post-ep, missing and extended scenes. Prompts gladly accepted.
1. Kiss Me When We Wake Up

Jumping into Kabby with both feet. I just binged The 100 and am currently in love and obsessed. This is going to be a series of Kabby one-shots in all kinds of order because I'm watching and re-watching and plotting and planning. Summaries will be at the start of the chapter. Expect lots of angst and a little fluff because, damnit they need some happy moments too.

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Set in Polis right after everyone wakes up from the City of Light. That hug was everything, but I wanted more. (And why is Jackson so underappreciated?)

...

Disinfect, suture, bandage, repeat.

Disinfect, suture, bandage, repeat.

She's been at it for hours. Though it could have been days, weeks, or minutes. There was no such thing as time in the City of Light and her brain hasn't caught up to it since she's been out. It was early morning when everyone woke up, when Clarke had fought through the City and disabled ALIE for good, since she filled her daughter's body with black blood, since she shot dead the people that kept coming to stop her daughter.

It's dark now. The throne room lit only by candles and torches as she keeps moving from injured to injured. They are less and less severe now. They'd treated the critical first. All that remains are minor cuts and burns that, if she's honest with herself probably don't need treating, but she can't stop. If she stops she thinks and she doesn't have room in her soul to process what she's done.

She kneels down next to Bellamy who sits on the steps next to the throne, exhaustion evident in his every feature. He'd been in and out all day, helping people find a place to sleep, bring more and more bandages and water. The last she'd seen him he had been carrying out a sleeping Clarke and promising Abby she'd be safe. She trusted him. He and Clarke had a knack for keeping each other safe and as horrible as it was to admit, she couldn't bare to look at her daughter any longer. Clarke had granted her forgiveness without a thought, but Abby will never forgive herself. "Has anyone looked at this?" she asks after a long moment of staring at the blood smeared down his face before bringing her shaking hand to his temple.

"It's nothing," he tells her with a tired smile. "I've been wacked in the head much harder. I'm sure it looks worse than it is." Bellamy takes her hand lowering it back to her lap. She stares at the unrecognizable appendages. They were covered in blood: black, bright red, and every shade in between. They had helped people; they had hurt people. People she loved. People she would die for (and almost had.) Bellamy's hand covers both of hers, pulls her momentarily from the dark path her mind was creeping down. "Take the hallway til it stops, turn right," he squeezes her hands hard enough that it should have gotten her attention. It doesn't.

Abby tries to make sense of what he was saying, she really does. She know he wouldn't be telling her something that wasn't important. They didn't have time to spare for anything that wasn't important. But no matter how hard she tries to focus, the young man's instructions won't sink in.

"I'll take her," the voice is in her ear, but feels so far away. There's a hand between her shoulder blades, one under her elbow, gently urging her back to her feet. Her legs feel like jelly when her knees lock in place. The hand stays on her elbow, the other moves to her waist holding her up more than she'd like to admit.

They have already turned before she thinks to ask or even consider where she was being taken. The hand abandons her elbow to pull back the fabric draped over the doorway before walking (dragging) her inside. "Kane?" the voice asked as they step further into the room. He leans her against the doorway, holds her there long enough to ensure she'll stay upright before venturing further inside. Jackson. The fog lifts, if only slightly and Abby cranes her neck to confirm it was her friend and colleague that brought her here. He's looking back at her with the same bright eyes he always does. The same eyes that had stared her down as he stalked toward Clarke; the eyes she had been seconds away from taking the light from.

The panic slams into her. Surely this is what it feels like to be floated on the ark: to have the breath ripped from your lungs, the warmth instantly taken from your body. There was nothing below her feet and she claws at the air seeking something to steady her. There are arms around her within seconds: Jackson is back kneeling behind her, Kane falling to his knees at her side. They are both saying her name again and again; each utterance a marker to lead her back to them.

Neither man moves until she stops gasping for air, until the numbness begins to consume her once more. "I didn't want to leave her alone," Jackson tells Kane, feeling he needs to explain bringing her here instead of one of the makeshift bunk rooms or a place of her own. He doesn't. Kane's silent nod tells him as much. Jackson removes the bag of bandages from his shoulder and hands it to Kane. "I want to look at her neck," he snaps back into Doctor mode, shifting so that he's positioned at Abby's side opposite him. "She hasn't stopped long enough to be treated herself."

Kane waits for the smart remark from Abby, her standard _I can take care of myself_ or _I'd have treated it if it needed treating._ Neither come. She stares blankly at her knees, breath hitching every few moments, but otherwise silent. It scares him. He hates that it scares him; he hates that he wasn't there for her in those initial moments after the City of Light shattered around them; he hates that he clung to her, released is rage and pain and grief into her embrace and hadn't taken any of hers in return; he hates that it's Jackson that picks her up off the floor and carries her to the lone chair in the room.

"Do you have water?" Jackson asks as he sets her down. Kane is on his feet darting around the room because this is something he _can do_. This is some small way that he can help her right now.

"It's cooled," he says apologetically, setting the basin and pitcher on the floor at Abby's feat.

Jackson simply nods, dipping a rag into the water and wringing it out. Kane looks lost. They all do; the ones that were forced into taking the chip. He took it so long ago, willingly. Maybe that's why he's not as affected as they are? Maybe because he was under ALIE's influence longer? Maybe it just hasn't all caught up with him yet. He's sure the latter is the correct answer; he's sure when he's done with his patient's, maybe even when he's done here with Abby that he'll have to face down the same demons he sees in the eyes of Abby and Kane right now. Maybe later, but not yet. "Can you move her hair?" he gives Kane something to do. It seems to help, his eyes focus, his hands steady, as he scoops Abby's hair off her shoulders and drapes it over the back of the chair. Jackson pretends not to notice the practiced way his fingers slip through the strands. He's not blind to the ever growing affection between them, but he's not sure he's forgiven Kane for the Ark, for the lashing. People that hurt those he loves were rarely granted his forgiveness and Abby Griffin is definitely someone he loves.

He brings the rag to her neck, gently pressing against the bruised and bloodied flesh, visibly relieved when it appears to be mostly superficial. Kane has a different angle though and his brow is creased in concern. "Abby," he says gently, fingers ghosting along the back of her neck. "Abby, I need to take your necklace off." Her hand shoots to the ring hanging at her chest, the sudden movement causing both men to startle. "Abby," Kane says again, quiet, calm. It takes a moment, but she nods slightly. Kane releases the clasp, pulling the chain slowly from the side of her neck.

Jackson sees it as soon as Abby flinches; the angry red gash where the rope had forced the metal into her skin. "Wait," he tells Kane, placing the cool rag against where the chain is the deepest. It won't numb the pain, not by far, but he hopes it distracts from it if nothing else. He removes the rag, Kane pulls chain. The repeat the process millimeter by millimeter until the necklace hangs freely from Kane's fingers.

"I'll keep it safe," Marcus promises her as he watches her eyes flit from the ring to him. There's a thousand questions and confessions in her eyes that they shelve for another time. He steps away quickly, placing her necklace on the bedside table and returning to her side. Jackson is already applying a bandage to the side of her neck. He's efficient, tender. Abby taught him well. He kneels at her side again, brings the damp cloth to her split lip, dabs at her swollen eye. "How did this happen?" he asks no one in particular. The answer shouldn't matter, he holds no one responsible for their actions while under ALIE's influence, but it's Abby and that's the only reason he has. He remembers her bruised eye, the guards that threw her to the floor when he was first taken prisoner in Polis; he hadn't thought much about how it happened at the time. They never seemed to have time to think about such trivial things as where the latest bruise came from.. "She had already taken the chip before she came here," Kane muses again, gently wiping the dried blood from her forehead. He forces himself not to think too much about the fact that she's sitting here silently, letting them take care of her.

There's no accusation in Kane's voice, only concern for the woman they both loved. Jackson feels it nonetheless. Abby was hurt and he wasn't. There was barely a scratch on the young doctor's skin and those that were, only occurred in the last seconds before Clarke pulled the kill switch; in the seconds when he was forced to watch the torture in Abby's eyes at the thought of having to stop him from getting to her daughter. "ALIE wanted to trick you into taking the chip willingly. _It_ thought it would be easier if she looked like she'd been held captive." He spits the words out, bit by bit remembering what he had let take over his mind. "It wasn't me," he tells Kane firmly, needing to say it as well as hear it. "I...I wasn't the one that hit her," his head falls as he remembers the image of Abby in the hallway with a glassed over look on her face as one of the chipped Grounders beat their fists into her body until blood flew from her mouth, until she fell to the floor then got up as if nothing happened and let them drag her to the room where Kane was being held.

The room tilts and Jackson's certain he's going to be sick as he stares and stares at the stone floor willing the memories to stop. There's a hand on the back of his neck, small, but strong, squeezing until he finds the courage to look up. "We're gonna be okay," Abby's broken voice barely reaches his ear, but the assurance in her eyes is unmistakable.

"I'm sorry," is all he can say as he squeezes her hands and lets his forehead fall against her knee. "I'm so so sorry."

"Stop," she orders in her best mother/doctor/chancellor voice, repeating what Clarke had assured her when the dam of guilt first broke. Her voice isn't nearly as firm as it should be, or maybe it's just right because Jackson pulls back, nods at her as he gets to his feet. She stands with him, grateful for Marcus' steadying hand on her back until she can get her arms around Jackson's neck. "It wasn't you," she whispers into his ear. "I don't blame you. Not for one moment do I blame you."

Kane steps away. He can't get far, the room Bellamy drug him to isn't all that spacious, but it's warm and there's a bed, a small table and a chair, luxury living compared to what he's used to. He retreats to the edge of the bed, wraps Abby's necklace around some antler decor on the table to give himself something to do while Jackson and Abby take the moment they need.

Jackson has a vice grip around her. He's probably hurting her ribs, but she's not protesting so he's not letting go. "I love you," he tells her with a wet chuckle into her bruised neck. "You do know that, right? You've practically raised me, Abby and I know I've never said it, but…"

"I love you too," she cuts him off because she does know and he has told her many times over even if it wasn't in words.

When he pulls away, he's still wiping at his eyes, still seeing the untold horrors they've all witnessed behind them. "Get some rest," he tells her, straightening his spine. And then turns to Kane, instructing "Make sure she sleeps."

Kane nods, smiles at the young doctor who is Abby through and through and takes his place at Abby's side when Jackson leaves it.

She waits until Jackson is out of the room, until the heavy fabric re-covers the doorway, until she no longer hears his footfalls in the hallway. Then she breaks. The sound she makes hurts her chest, her throat burns with the guttural sobs she can't control. Marcus is there, collapsing with her to the floor, holding her as tightly as she held him. He doesn't _Shush_ her. He doesn't tell her it's okay. It's not okay. Nothing about what they've been through is okay. The things she'd done under ALIE's control are devastating: she'd hurt her child, she'd manipulated, she'd tortured. For fuck's sake, she'd hung herself in front of her daughter. No one should be put through that. It wasn't okay. But it hadn't ended there for her. She'd woken up. She'd been Abby again and he suspected she was having a harder time dealing with what Abby did than what ALIE did with her body.

He'd taught her to shoot after Mount Weather; he'd taught her not to miss and she hadn't. He was aware of everything around him while under ALIE's control. Even with his hands wrapped around Bellamy's neck, staring blankly into the man's (he no longer thought of any of the kids as kids) eyes, he remembers seeing the Grounder soldiers fall, one after the other as they kept flooding into the throne room. He remembers Jackson and the ever present peaceful expression on his face as he got closer and closer. She'd been a heartbeat away from having to shoot the person she loved as a son.

It wasn't okay.

She needs to cry, needs to purge the pain.

It's not long before she starts to settle. Sobs turn to hiccups that soften into quiet gasps as she slowly releases the white-knuckled grip she has on his arms. She's laying against him, her side pressed to his chest, he's got an arm wrapped around her holding to the small of her back, another cradling her neck with his fingers in her hair. She doesn't ever want to move. Except the floor is hard. And cold. And he's hurt. _You hurt him_ surges back into her mind and she holds him tight once again, swallows down the sobs she no longer has the energy to let loose. "We should get up," she says eventually.

He sighs into her hair, "Whenever you're ready."

Never. "We're too old to sleep on the floor," she tries to joke but it just comes out sad and tired. She's so tired.

He groans as he slowly gets to his feet. He's definitely too old to sleep on a stone floor. He's too old to climb a tower, to fight with men half his age. _Didn't stop you from almost killing, Bellamy_ the vicious part of his brain attacks. He closes his eyes against it, forces it back deep inside. When he opens them again, Abby is close to the fire, staring down at her blood stained shirt. It's stitched up the back, he notices in the firelight. A perfect little row of little stitches to repair the shirt he had ordered to be ripped off to bare her back. Had that only been a few months ago? His thoughts race back to the present when Abby pulls the shirt over her head and tosses it aggressively into the flame. When she faces him it's with a determined look on her face and everything in Kane relaxes. "There she is," he smiles holding his hand out to her. He leads her to the bed where they sit side by side unlacing boots, unbuttoning pants like this is there nightly routine and not something they've never done before.

Her pants fall off of her hips the moment she stands; they were too big before she took the chip and food and regular meal times hadn't been on ALIE's agenda. She pitches them toward the fireplace as well. They don't quite make it, ending up rumpled near the chair, but they're away and it's enough for now.

Her hand flies to cover her gasp when she turns back to Marcus. He's sitting on the bed, bare legs stretched out in front of him, bare chest on display. He's covered in bruises. There's barely an inch of skin that's not mottled or bandaged. "Oh my God," she muffles, rooted to the spot at her side of the bed. "Why didn't you say something?" she whispers as she lowers her hand. He can see her trying to force Abby back and bring Dr Griffin out. He's grateful that she's failing.

"I don't need a doctor, _Abby_." he emphasizes her name, reaching his hand out to her again. "Jackson patched me up earlier," he turns his pristinely wrapped wrists for her to inspect. "They'll fade. We're all bruised," he can't help stare at her. He's never seen her in this state of undress (just her tank and panties); even bruised and battered she's beautiful. Under different circumstances he would not be the gentleman he fully intends to be tonight.

She takes his hand, holds out for another minute before he's tugging at her arm and she lets herself be pulled into the bed next to him. He shifts himself down so that he's laying on his back and pulls the furs over them both. Abby lays on her side on the edge of the bed. She's stiff as a board and entirely too far away. "Come over here," he whispers because the room has darkened with the dying fire and the moment is far too intimate to disturb.

"I don't want to hurt you," she whispers back, pulling herself so close the edge that he fears she'll fall off.

She's not going to come to him, he realizes, so he goes to her. Scooting bit by bit until he can reach out to her, his hand brushing her arm and pulling until she falls to her back beside him. He shifts to his side, forcing back the grimace of pain he knows will send her running out the door, props his head up on hand and looks down at her. Her eyes are wet with tears he knows she's not ready to shed. "I need to be close to you," he whispers again, his warm breath washing over her skin. "I need you by my side."

Another stream of tears slips from her eyes at his confession. He still wants her close. After what she's done, after how she hurt him. He still _needs_ her. Maybe the world won't break apart if she lets herself need him too. She can't answer him tonight, not in words, but he seems content with the nod she gives. He eases himself back to the mattress and holds his arm out to bring her in. Marcus sighs deeply as she settles her head against the least bruised portion of his chest, her hand resting above the steady beat of his heart.

"Marcus," she mutters against him and Kane isn't sure she's awake. He isn't sure that he is either for that matter. Still, he _hmmms?_ in response and after a silent moment she continues in the same sleepy tone. "I want to kiss you, but I can't move. Kiss me when we wake up."

"Yes, ma'am," he smiles for the first time in longer than he can remember. She turns her head only, places a barely there peck against his chest. His lips press into hair and stay there. He makes one more lazy pass of his fingers through her hair and they still. Exhaustion wins out and they finally sleep.

Nothing is okay, but right here, in this moment he can find peace.

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Please let me know what you think. Do you like it? Should I never ever write them again?


	2. First Breath

Post Season 5 (wishful Season 6 beginning)

Very loosely based on Ray LaMontagne's song Lay It All On Me. At least that's what I was listening to when inspiration struck.

Thank you for reading. :)

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The walls are white. The blankets are white. The tables and the chair in the corner are white. Why white? She wonders. What doctor thousands of years ago decided that white would be the color to mean sterile, heal, cure. It's madness. The floral dress that Raven brought her from the market looks absurd against all this blank color. She feels like there's a target on her, like she's chaos to the order that surrounds her. Raven meant well. She meant to make her smile. They all had. All her "kids" had brought her gifts as they ventured out of the Eligius III medical facility and into their new home. Jackson had brought her food six days in a row until she told him that the staff here had been providing her meals. Then he brought her flowers. Murphy had brought her a hairbrush and a sad smile as he downplayed the wonders that lie beyond these walls. Clarke and Madi had stayed by her side during her own treatment. She may have been clean of the drugs when she entered cryosleep, but her system had been severely compromised. Combined with the dehydration and malnutrition they all suffered from, Abby was in need of medical treatment as much as any of her patients.

The technology here was beyond anything Abby had on the Ark, certainly more than she had on the ground. The treatment was fast, painless; in a matter of hours she felt and looked better than she had since before the Ark crashed to Earth. But equipment or not, medicine was medicine; the human body only held so many secrets. The doctors here respected her, consulted her about the people she'd been patching back up for years. One had even offered her and Jackson a position here once her and her people were settled in. It was too good to be true, finally an armistice in the never ending war she'd been fighting her entire life. All she had to do was leave this white room.

"Not without him," she had told them all after their bribes and coaxing and promises to keep vigil while she was away. It was appreciated and she hoped she was able to convey that to each of them, but it was also impossible. She'd started this journey with Marcus Kane at her side and she couldn't continue it knowing there was a chance he could stand there again.

She stares at him in the white bed, covered by the white gown and the white blankets. His skin as pale as the monochrome that keeps him alive. Alive. The word hangs there, looming between them. He's not dead. His heart still beats, his lungs still breath, but it's the machines surrounding him that give his body life. She's no longer sure if his spirit remains, if it's strong enough to fight it's way back to her; she's no longer sure she has a right to ask it to.

There's a hand on her shoulder and Abby jumps at the intrusion. The other woman remains stoic beside her, looking toward her friend on the bed. "Indra," Abby says, reaching up and covering the warriors hand with her own.

"I was told his fight may be over today," she says solemnly but Abby can hear the grief in her steady voice. "He would want you to have this. He gave it to me when Octavia sentenced him to the pits." She takes Abby's hand, places the crumpled and blood-stained paper in it then leaves the room as silently as she entered.

Abby stares at paper in her hand, traces the edges, underlines her name written in Marcus' small, neat print. It shocks her that Indra has carried this with her out of the bunker, through battle, kept it safe for over a hundred years. But it doesn't. If Kane had asked her to deliver it, than it shouldn't surprise her at all.

She should wait. There's a chance he'll come through this. She should wait to read the words he left her with. She should.

Her hands tremble as she unfolds the fragile paper and begins to read.

 _My dear Abby,_

 _You hate me right now. We've been in the bunker for 2 weeks and you've barely met my eye. I don't blame you. I took away your choice. Maybe that was wrong, but I don't regret it; I'll never regret saving you the way you saved me. You've made me a better man. You've made me the person that can get our people through the next five years. But I can't do it without you. Even if you can't bear to look at me, knowing you're here, knowing you're safe and that you're by my side in leadership if not in love...well, it will have to be enough for now._

 _I hope you forgave me._

 _If you couldn't, I hope that you know that my intentions were pure. We needed you to survive; we needed a doctor. No. You'll scoff at that, you'll know the truth so here it is:_ _I_ _need you._ _I_ _love you. Maybe it was selfish of me not to let you go. Could you have done it to me, I wonder? Could you have drug my body outside and left me to be consumed by Praimfaya and gone about your life down here alone? I know the answer. You opened the door for me._

 _I don't know why I'm writing this. Probably because you won't talk to me and I need your council, your solace, your forgiveness._

 _But none of this is what I set out to say so I'll just say this. I love you, Abby. I think I've loved you longer than I can even conceive. I hope that when you read this you are an old woman and that you can look fondly back on the years I spent by your side. I hope that my last breath was your name. Please know that it was even if you didn't hear it because your name is life to me, Abby. It gives me hope; it gives me the strength to guide our people through the darkness, to do what needs to be done._

 _Keep that with you as you go on._

 _May we meet again,_

 _Marcus_

The pages flutter to the floor as Abby buries her head in her hands and weeps for the precious moments she wasted being mad at him for loving her too much to let her die. So much time. So much she may never get to apologize for. She doesn't deserve him or the forgiveness he selflessly granted her. She weeps for their future; the one he dreamt about; the one she callously threw away with a guilt she wasn't strong enough bear.

"Dr. Griffin?" the voice is clinical, but warm. "It's time." The young doctor that has been monitoring Marcus slowly enters the room. There are others in the hall, but they wait until they are called, giving Abby as much privacy as they can. She takes in gulps of air, futily wiping her tears as she stands on shaking limbs and walks with the doctor to Marcus' bed. They'd discussed this. They'd agreed. Abby had insisted she be the one to do it and the physician hadn't argued, only showed her what to do. "We'll be monitoring everything from outside," she took Abby's hand in hers, squeezed it tightly. There was an understanding there: physician to physician, woman to woman. The people were kind here. Welcoming. It could be a place she eventually called home.

When the door slides shut, Abby climbs into the bed. It's a practiced maneuver, she's slept here every night since they landed on Eligius, but her movements are slow, purposeful. This could be the last time she curls her body into his.

"I read your letter," she confesses quietly. "The one you gave to Indra? Do you even remember writing it? That was so long ago. Longer than you'd even believe. I probably shouldn't have. Not until…" She trails off unable to say the words. _Until you're truly dead_. They weave through her like a dark, twisted poison. She won't give them the power of her voice. "It's been 23 days since we brought you out of the cryosleep. This medical center is amazing, Marcus. The equipment they have, what they can do...they've done everything, EVERYTHING that they can do. The rest is up to you." She's stalling shamelessly. "You said in your letter that you hoped we lived a long and happy life and I want that. I want that with you. But this," she traces the tube going into his arm, runs her fingers along the mask helping him breathe. "This isn't living. This isn't what you want. I know you think you lost your way and maybe you had. We both had. I don't know how to make it right for you. I don't know what to tell you other than I'm still here and I'm not going anywhere. So if you want to come back, if you want to try to find ourselves again, to find each other, I'm by your side.

"But it's your choice. I can't make it for you. I should never have taken that away from you. I shouldn't-" her mind floods with the grotesque memories of the bunker, of her manipulation of him; her betrayal. "I don't know how you could forgive me." Her fingers weave through his hair, trace the scar Vincent left on his neck. "I'm going to turn this off," she reaches over him, hands shaking so badly she has to use both of them to turn the dial on the respirator. She knicks him a bit removing the IV from his arm. The small bead of bright red blood is a stark contrast to the sterile white surrounding them. Abby stretches out along his side, her face buried in his neck, palm flat against his chest. She doesn't look at the monitors; she doesn't want a machine telling her the man she loves is gone. She's deathly still, barely breathing herself as she feels the too shallow rise and fall of his chest. Her eyes squeeze together, but the tears still flow down her cheeks, soaking into the pillow beneath them. "Fight, Marcus," her whisper is warm against his ear as she nuzzles in impossibly closer. "You're not a quitter; you've never run away from a fight. I know you deserve this. God knows you deserve to rest, you deserve to choose your fate, but please...Don't quit now. Don't run now. We made it. We can start over here. We can be better. Please, Marcus! Please please please please please."

She wasn't going to beg. She'd promised herself that, promised him that, but the desperate pleas tumble from her lips uninhibited. "This is selfish, I know it is," she hiccups, propping her head up so she can look down on him. Fingers stroke the hair at his temples, run down his jaw to his lips then back up. Over and over. "I'm selfish," the confession comes out with a sob. "Always have been, always have to get my way. You keep me in check, you keep me-"

"Aaaaabby." There's a harsh gasp as his chest rises fully under palm. His head thrashes against the pillow, bumping into her hand. His arms reach blindly grasping on to her, fingers digging painfully into her side. Abby jolts upright, both hands cupping his face, thumbs stroking his cheeks.

"Marcus," she means to sound calm, but panic consumes her. Not like this. She had readied herself to lay by his side while he drifted into an endless, peaceful sleep, not to watch him fight for breath that won't reach his lungs; not for the last thing she hears to be the painful gasp of her name. "Marcus!" she says more forcefully holding his head between her forearms to still him. "Marcus, I'm here. You're okay. You're okay." Please be okay.

The medical staff is moving efficiently around her, scanning, checking, inserting a needle into the arm tightly gripping Abby's hip. He goes limp almost instantly, head lulling against her hand, his arm heavy in her lap. The look of horror Abby gives the doctor could burn the world, but the young woman softly smiles. "He's alright, Dr, Griffin, I assure you. It's easier to treat a condition when the patient is awake. The effects of coming out of cryosleep are different for everyone. The reaction is sometimes violent. Considering the condition he was in when you placed in the chamber I expected a more violent response."

"You knew this would happen?" Abby asks accusingly, forcing herself not to look down to wear Marcus' face is still heavy against her palm.

"I knew it could happen, yes. I'm sorry for not telling you. I didn't believe he would wake up and I wanted to spare you the details of what _could_ happen. You're people are strong. I'll not underestimate them again." She adjust something else on a monitor that Abby can't see and nods to dismiss the other staff.

"He's alright?" Abby's voice cracks, still unable to believe this could all be over.

Marcus answers for her. The arm that had been limp at his side slides up her arm until his hand cupped her face, turning it down toward him. "Abby," he breathes out, easy and strong. She lets herself be pulled down to him, fuses herself to his chest. It only takes seconds for his arms to envelop her.

She's clean. It's the first thought that enters Marcus' mind and strange as that may seem he can't process it. Her arms push under him, around his head; her hair blankets over them both. She's soft, smells like the flowers she's wearing. Her eyes are bright and clear when she raises up just enough to look into his. "Did I die?" he asks cautiously because it seems the only logical explanation for waking in a room of white with a beautiful, healthy Abigail Griffin looming over him. She laughs aloud, rich and pure and he's even more convinced that this is some sort of heaven. He hasn't heard that sound in years, hasn't seen her smile. Reaching out, he brushes her hair over her shoulder, toying with the ends, not letting them go. She pulls back slowly until she's once again sitting by his side, he rises with her, the back of the bed automatically following his assent, bracing him. "Abby?" he asks a thousand questions with one word.

"You're not dead," she's still smiling, still crying, "But if you ever scare me like that again Marcus Kane, I will kill you myself." She swats his arm playfully, grabbing his hand and not letting go.

"Where are we?" he looks around, recognizing nothing. "How long was I asleep?"

Abby sighs. "Those are both going to require quite a long explanation. We're safe. Most of us made it out."

He has so many questions he doesn't begin to know how to ask, so he settles on "Clarke?"

"She's fine," Abby confirms, granting him a grateful smile that one of his first thoughts had been her daughter. "Bellamy, Raven, Jackson, Indra…" she trails off. She can give him the complete list later. "We're home." That's enough for now. His arms are back around her, pulling her in tight, making up for every second lost and vowing not to waste another. She'll walk out of here with him soon; they'll share the same moment of wonder as when they crawled out of Meta Station and saw Earth for the first time; they'll find a place, a purpose here. Together.

* * *

I said this on Twitter but I'm going to say it here again because I can. Paige's performance in The Dark Year was unreal and beyond any other fabulous works he's done over 5 seasons. I never say this because I'm old, but I'm shook. There's no other appropriate words. I watched the entire withdrawal scene with my hand over my mouth. Someone give that woman a gods damn Emmy.


End file.
